Roger Curtis - Lights in a Western Sky

The hearse was already drawn up outside the porch. He could make out in its sombre interior only a single wreath of white carnations on the teak coffin. As he approached, the incongruent simplicity of it made him slow his pace. Here had been a man whose ostentation in life had marked him out as a likely villain, a petty criminal of humble origins with a taste for cars, women and fast living. And that was how Lucas had portrayed him in that last fateful sermon; not naming him, of course, but indirectly denouncing the evils that had descended upon the village that everyone believed had only one origin. Looking back, might he have been a bit hasty in assuming that Harvey Crib’s lifestyle had been funded by crime? Hinting, even, that the theft of the church plate – upon no evidence whatsoever, as one parishioner had pointed out – could be laid at this man’s door? It came as a not unpleasant surprise to be told that, with Harvey’s suicide, the police files had been effectively closed.

But Lucas was not one to dwell on such matters. Whatever the weather he enjoyed these outdoor services: the mown grass between graves in the shadow of the great yew, the dashes of colour that flecked the graveyard after recent inhumations. Especially, he savoured the rich loam walls of freshly dug graves – and an order of service more in harmony with these outside elements than with the sullen interior of his somewhat dilapidated church.

Besides the bearers there were precisely seven people, stiff and erect, peering into the void. They included the deceased’s nephew, Tony Crib, and his wife Samantha, whom he knew as neighbours. The rest he assumed were relatives; it seemed unlikely that the surly Harvey had had any real friends, and his business acquaintances would have thought it in their best interests to stay away. But one never could tell.

Lucas was soon in full flight, revelling in the drama of the words. ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay…’

Accustomed to fixing his gaze on the church tower at such times it took several seconds before he realised the gathering had been joined by a young man shabbily dressed in black who looked about him nervously before bowing his head. Unaccustomed to being interrupted Lucas ignored him and continued, ‘…in the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased…’ He could see the mourners’ sidelong glances, but the flow could not be interrupted, not now. ‘…yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal…’

‘Reverend,’ the intruder whispered.

‘…eternal death. Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful…’

‘Reverend!’

‘…merciful ears to our prayers; but spare us…’ Suddenly his resolve was broken. ‘What?’

‘I need to speak with you.’

‘Can’t you see I’m burying someone?’

‘That’s just it, Reverend.’

‘Just what?’

‘You’re not.’

Lucas beamed at the mourners and soldiered on. ‘…spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty…’ Then he gave up. ‘Friends, I think my colleague has a special message of condolence that must precede the casting of the earth. Pray bear with us for just one moment.’

‘Who are you?’ he hissed. ‘What do you want?’

‘Palin, Sir, from the undertakers. There’s been a… em… mix-up.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘He’s not in there.’

Sensing something was amiss Tony Crib shuffled up to them. ‘Something up, Reverend?’

‘A small technicality, Anthony. Sorted in a moment.’

Palin was now becoming agitated. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I said that’s not him in there.’

‘Where is he then – soaring over the treetops?’

‘Boring his way downwards, more like,’ Tony said.

Tony Crib grasped Palin’s lapels. ‘Look, you. My uncle’s waited a lifetime for this – but not half as much as we have – and you’re not going to spoil it.’ A look of enlightenment crossed his face. ‘Hey! Penny’s just dropped. Local uni. It’s rag day, isn’t it?’ To Palin he said, ‘You’re a bloody student aren’t you?’

‘Do I look…’

‘Admit you’ve been rumbled. Good try but now you can just bugger off. Empty handed.’

‘Alright,’ Palin said. ‘I tried to tell you but you wouldn’t listen. On your own heads be it. I’m off.’

‘Well spotted Anthony,’ Lucas said. He turned to one of the bearers. ‘You know that man?’

‘Seen him about. Trainee I think.’

Samantha, who had been listening intently, came across to them. ‘Well, we’re not burying anything until we’re sure it’s Uncle Harvey.’

‘Here, Sammy,’ Tony said. ‘You got your mobile? Telephone the undertakers, there’s a good girl.’

‘So resourceful, your husband. Try 801349. Always remember it – year of the black death.’

But she was beaten by the phone ringing.

‘Who’s that?… Who?… Aunt Ada’s in Australia… Well, fancy that, I’d never have believed it. She grinned at Lucas. ‘It’s Harvey’s sister – she’s on her way. Now we’ll have to wait.’

‘Where is she?’

‘At the station.’

Lucas lost no time in addressing the bearers. ‘Look, we have to wait for the deceased’s sister. Can you chaps come back in an hour?’

‘Well, I dunno, it’s a bit irregular. Is the pub still open?’

‘Assuredly, assuredly. They’ll make you most welcome.’

When the bearers had left the churchyard Lucas said, ‘Now, we must think. How can we be absolutely certain that…’

‘Try lifting the coffin. He didn’t weigh much.’

‘Think you can tell?’

‘If we rock it a bit, he’d roll wouldn’t he. He, he, geddit… rock and roll…’

‘Good one, Tony,’ Sam said. ‘Hey, look, it’s beginning to rain again.’

They lifted the coffin. ‘Bloody heavy,’ Tony said.

Sam was becoming agitated. ‘Now it’s pouring. We can’t leave him here, but I’m going home. I suggest you take him inside.’

Lucas and Tony grabbed the handles and manoeuvred the coffin into the porch. Lucas grappled with the door, which failed to budge. ‘Does this when it’s wet,’ he said. They tried again. The door gave way and they were in. They placed the coffin on the floor.

‘Thirsty work,’ Crib said.

‘There’s some red in the cupboard. If the ringers haven’t beaten us to it.’

Cribb returned with a bottle. ‘No goblets, Vicar?’

‘Sorry. They went when the silver got… er… taken away. But, changing the subject, what are we going to do…’

‘What would your good lord have us do?’

‘You mean…?’

‘Use your nous. Darkness to light. Enlightenment. Open the bugger. Take a look, then we’d know, wouldn’t we?’

‘I can’t… I see where you’re coming from. With what, though?’

‘The church doesn’t have a tool kit?’

‘Good gracious, no! Things spiritual, not temporal.’

Cribb looked at the screws of the coffin. ‘Bloody Philips screws anyway.’ He paused. We could always… um… try another way.’

‘How, Tony?’

There was a tinkling sound from outside the church door. ‘That’s Agatha’s bicycle,’ Lucas said. ‘If she’s here the other flower ladies can’t be far behind. If they should see us… Shouldn’t we just take him back before the bearers return?’

‘And live in doubt for the rest of our lives? Vicar?’

‘Quickly, then. Into the vestry with it.’

They manhandled the coffin into the vestry and pulled the curtains.